


The Orcs of Erebor

by Cassunjey



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Orc Culture, Orcs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29755659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassunjey/pseuds/Cassunjey
Summary: Kill the men, take the city, and starve a few dwarves out of a mountain.It should have been easy.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15
Collections: /r/FanFiction Prompt Challenge #22 / February 2021





	The Orcs of Erebor

**Author's Note:**

> The Battle of the Five Armies from an orc's perspective.

“Uzresh!”

Distracted by Ozru’s shout, Uzresh’s scimitar sparked off the wall and missed the man by a whisker. A bright flash of white light lit up the narrow alleyway as the man struck out blindly with a sword he didn’t know how to use. The feeble blow slid harmlessly off Uzresh’s shield, and he kicked the man backward.

 _“_ Uzresh, quickly!”

He hesitated. The grey wizard’s light didn’t seem near enough to be a concern. But it was hard to tell in this mannish place of overhanging walls, and streets barely the width of his shoulders, and his second-in-command sounded frantic. It must be important. The man scuttled backward and flung himself into one of the narrow houses. As the flimsy, wooden door slammed shut, Uzresh snorted at the sword abandoned on the stones. Weaponless, and trapped like a rat. The man would keep.

Ozru beckoned to him urgently from the end of the alleyway as Uzresh jogged to meet him.

 _“_ What?” Urzesh looked up and down the wide street and listened hard. It was empty. No wizard. No elven cavalry. Only the clash of metal against metal, and the screams of the injured and dying that drifted from nearby houses and the warren of alleyways surrounding them. Another flash of light lit up the bats that wheeled above their heads. One swooped too close and Uzresh swatted it away from them with the flat of his scimitar as Ozru cursed beside him. The light seemed to originate from somewhere closer to the inner walls this time. That was good. Although, if the inner city was where the fighting was thickest, then that was probably where they should be. But the men and elves needed subdued here too. Should anyone ask.

Wordlessly, Ozru tapped his shoulder and pointed. Out beyond the city walls, high above them on the spur of the mountain — and exactly where Azog had set up his command post — fire raged. Uzresh blinked, unable to believe his eyes, as he watched the red and yellow tongues of flame leap high into the dark sky. Why would the King set the signal flags alight? What did it mean? Maybe it was a special order to fire Dale? Although if that was the case then the order was late, because the city was already aflame. The breeze carried with it the scent of burning wood and flesh, and the rooftops glowed a dusky orange like the sun was on the rise. As he stood shoulder to shoulder with Ozru and tried to puzzle out what it meant the sound of horns filled the air. Their horns. Not the elvish ones. A long, low blast. A pause and it repeated. Urgent.

 _“_ A retreat?” He turned to Ozru, certain he’d misheard, as the echoes bounced off the stone walls around them. But Ozru’s face only reflected his own confusion. Why retreat? The elves were a problem, that was true, but the men were almost defenceless, and the dwarves were surely overwhelmed by now in the field. They had seen the dwarf king’s banners pinned against the mountain before the orders came down the line to take Dale.

 _“_ What happened?” asked Ozru. “The wizard? Another trick?”

He didn’t know, and didn’t know why Ozru would think he did. But perhaps. Who knew what dark sorcery those creatures were capable of? The blinding light that threw their kin back with savage violence, and lost Uzresh two of his younglings before he ordered his people into the side streets, was all he assumed the old man capable of. Surely, if the wizard had more tricks, he would have shown them by now? Before the streets were littered with dead men.

They cringed instinctively as a huge shadow moved overhead. The bats screeched in fury, and Uzresh tugged Ozru quickly under the eaves of a building and hopefully out of sight. An eagle. He’d never seen one so close. Uzresh craned his neck and spotted another, and another.

 _“_ There.” Ozru pointed toward the command tower. “Is that more?”

Uzresh leaned forward and squinted up toward the mountain spur. It did look like shadows moved amongst the flames. But he couldn’t be sure, and Ozru’s eyes were even worse than his. He looked around for a youngling but, as usual when you needed one, there was none in sight. This was all wrong. Someone at the city gate would know. Perhaps it was only that Bolg and the reinforcements were late, and they were to return to the field and regroup? Uzresh roared to his people to disengage.

 _“_ Gather them up,” he commanded Ozru, and indicated one side of the street. “Start there, and I’ll take this side. We’ll meet back here.”

Already, in ones and twos, his people responded to his call. Some limping and sporting fresh wounds. He ordered them to the street as he dashed up and down the alleyways and shouted for stragglers. Over smashing noises from one of the houses, a voice he recognised cried out for help, and, without thought, he kicked the door open. The first elvish arrow missed him by inches. As it clattered to the stones of the alleyway behind him the second ricocheted off his shield. With a roar Uzresh flung his scimitar across the cramped house at the trapped elf. A risky move for a distraction, but the cursed creatures were too quick with their bows. It cried out and Uzresh grabbed a large piece of mannish furniture by the broken door and hurled that too. With nowhere to run the impact knocked the elf from its feet. Two of his own cowered behind an overturned table, crockery in their hands, and Uzresh shouted at them to join him as he rushed the injured creature.

 _“_ One elf,” he said to them in disgust as broken earthenware cracked beneath his boots. He retrieved his scimitar from the creature’s chest and thrust it through its neck to make sure. You had to be very sure with these things. “Do you not hear the horns?”

 _“_ We were waiting for it to run out of arrows, Chief Uzresh.”

Uzresh sighed and swallowed his anger with a nod as they looked to him for approval. He supposed that made some sense. After all, he had told them not to take risks. But if they waited for all the elves to run out of arrows they would be here in this cramped, foul smelling place until midsummer. Not for the first time he wished Azog had allowed him more time to train. Any time to train. There were too many younglings and not enough veterans — and now not enough of either.

They were supposed to stay in groups. _“_ Where’s Brigrush?”

 _“_ Dead.” The younger one — barely a few winters older than Uzresh’s eldest — pointed at the ceiling. “There was another elf upstairs.”

Uzresh growled. Another of his best hunters lost. There was a good chance that they might survive this battle only to starve slowly to death in their caves come winter. He whispered a quick prayer. One he’d said far too many times, and it was not nearly enough, but it would have to do. Brigrush would forgive him when they met again. The younglings mumbled the words too, and Uzresh twisted his lips into something that might have resembled a smile. “We will do it properly when we are home. For all of them. Come. Quickly now.” 

He strode toward the door as the younglings picked up their weapons and shuffled after him. They crowded close, making the tight alleyway even smaller, and, with a low growl, he sent them away toward the meeting point and checked the remainder of the houses alone. Only bodies, and one badly injured elf. He flicked its sword away. 

_“_ You were not supposed to be here,” he murmured.

As he rested the point of his scimitar against its throat, it clawed at his leg and whispered urgently in its own strange language. Perhaps agreement, or prayers. Maybe a spell. He looked down into its glazed eyes as he leant his weight onto the scimitar, and the whispers stopped with a final gurgle. Curses. That was the most likely.

He quickly checked over his own people for signs of life. Another six lost. It was too much. Kill the men, take the city, and starve a few dwarves out of the mountain. That was their orders as Azog’s captains waved them forward into the were-worm tunnels. It should have been easy. They were told it would be easy. 

Perhaps Azog knew all along.

That was a traitorous thought, and Uzresh smothered it quickly as he made his way at a trot back down the alley. Their King would not have lied to them. Azog could not have known that an army of elves awaited them, or that they would face more dwarves than Uzresh had seen gathered together in one place in a hundred years. 

His people were waiting for him when he emerged from the alley. Ozru shook his head slightly in response to the silent question, and Uzresh deflated as he looked over the small group. This then was all he had left. 

“We make for the main gate. Follow me.” 

He raced ahead of them up the wide street and skidded to a halt as a troll — its hide feathered with arrows, and the chains about its waist hanging loose — lumbered out of the smoke to meet them. Uzresh looked past it for the handler, but there was none in sight, and behind him Ozru shouted a warning as the beast lowered its head and charged. The ground shook and Uzresh waved his shield and roared the halt command. But the troll took no notice, maddened by rage or bloodlust, and Uzresh clashed his scimitar and shield together to try and get its attention before he shouted again. Louder this time. A strong arm wrapped around his waist, and Ozru flung both of them into an alley as the troll’s mace crashed into the stone overhead. Together they rolled and scrambled into the comparative safety of the narrow space and raised their shields over their heads as stone and roof tiles rained down on them.

The horns blared again. There was no time for this. Uzresh threw a roof tile at the troll’s knee and Ozru followed his lead as a house crashed to the ground behind them, and blocked further retreat down the alley with rubble. Yells and the sound of heavy boots on stone filled the air and, with a final swing that knocked part of a wall and the contents of a house over them, the troll turned away and roared in a fury. Uzresh hoped his people weren’t doing anything stupid as it stomped off out of sight. 

They picked their way cautiously out of the alley to find the previously quiet street full. Orcs flooded past them, away from the main gate, and Uzresh grabbed one. He shook the orc as he struggled. “Stop. Where are you going?”

 _“_ West gate,” the little orc squeaked. His eyes white rimmed as he writhed and tried to free himself.

Uzresh dug his claws into the orc’s arms and shook him again. Harder this time. “But the main gate?”

 _“_ Gone. All dead. Let me go.”

They watched the orc join the crush. The troll was nearby but seemed to have lost interest in them as it too headed, with an odd sense of purpose, in the direction of the Western gate. The huge mace swung as the beast knocked orcs aside and out of its path. Its kind kept going until something distracted it, or it reached a wall it couldn’t smash its way through. 

Stupid, mindless creatures.

Something roared toward the main gate and Uzresh’s blood turned to ice water. The crowd pushed with a renewed urgency and a clamour of panicked voices rose around them. Uzresh looked in the direction of the terrible noise and back toward the troll. It seemed to be in a hurry.

Trolls ran from nothing.

Perhaps they should follow it.

 _“_ Let’s go to the Western gate,” he said to Ozru.

His people were pressed against the houses that lined the street. Uzresh counted heads and was pleased and proud to find them all there. Disciplined and awaiting his orders, against all expectation, amidst the unruly mob. The scent of fear rolled off the crush in waves. He gestured to his people across the street to join the throng and plunged in himself to be swept along helplessly toward the Western gate. That would do. Any gate would do. Get free of the city and make their way back to the tunnels, and go home. Home to Ogluth and the younglings. Mourn their dead, and prepare for full winter. 

The thought lifted his heart as he carved himself a space with shield and elbows to better keep his feet on the uneven cobblestones. They had done their part and it was over. Almost.

* * *

Every one of his years weighed heavily on him as he climbed the rough, stone steps of the inner walls. Gandalf breathed deep as he reached the top and leant on his staff. Glad of its support. He was bone tired. Behind him in the inner city the streets were quietening, and below, outside the broken gates, Beorn was busy tearing through a pack of orcs. He owed the shapeshifter a debt of gratitude. They all did.

Heavy boots clumped up the steps behind him and Gandalf turned to smile warmly at the new King of Dale.

Bard — one hand gripping his sword hilt like his life depended on it — swayed and clutched the stone parapet. “What the...” He stared down at the street below. “Is that a bear?”

 _“_ Beorn. He's a friend.”

 _“_ Good,” said Bard wearily. “That’s good. One of yours?” 

They watched as Beorn flung a screaming orc the width of the broad street. It landed in a broken, silent heap and the remaining orcs ran in the direction of the western gate. Beorn roared as he followed them and disappeared from view. 

“Remind me not to upset him,” murmured Bard as the roars echoed over Dale. “Is it over?”

Perhaps. The orc horns were a retreat, that much was certain, and the enemy appeared to be in full rout. From their vantage point on the walls Gandalf could see across to the dark silhouette of Erebor, and between the city and the mountain the orcs flowed across the valley floor like a black tide. Harried by the combined elvish and dwarven forces — the allies given a second wind by the scent of victory — the enemy attempted to flee to the were-worm tunnels. High above, on the mountain’s eastern spur at Ravenhill, fire flickered. That was probably a good sign.

 _“_ I believe the city is yours, Bard.”

Bard snorted.

"It looks bleak right now, I grant you, but you'll soon have it put to rights." Gandalf patted Bard's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. It was a lot for a bargeman, and part-time smuggler, to take in, but with a bit of gentle guidance he was sure the man would do fine. "Perhaps you should start with the fires?"

* * *

It was a trap. 

The elves waited for them. A hail of arrows studded the orcs ahead of Uzresh. Whilst his kin cried out and dropped to the cobblestones he turned with the other survivors and they trampled over each other to escape. There was no space to run. Tightly packed together he pushed with the others only to face the shapeshifter as he roared his way down the street. Uzresh watched over the heads of his panicking kin in horror as the bear tore the stragglers apart. He looked frantically for Ozru, but he was gone from his side. Lost somewhere behind him in the crush. He was on his own. Despite his efforts to break free into one of the alleyways Uzresh found himself pushed helplessly out and through the gates. Toward the line of elvish archers. The mass of orcs behind more fearful of the bear than the elves.

 _“_ Uzresh!” As he passed through the archway claws wrapped around his wrist and yanked him sideways. 

Uzresh clasped Ozru gratefully. _“_ You’re alive.”

 _“_ For now.”

Together they began to pull their people from the crowd. The trembling younglings they pushed back against the thick walls of the city, and Uzresh arranged his veterans — too few — in front. Around them others shouted. Some in defiance and some calling for kin. Orzu joined the calls. His hands cupped around his mouth as he roared the name of their home to try and draw their people to them, whilst Uzresh looked desperately over the jostling mob for the missing faces and found none. He counted heads again and again as his people looked to him for orders. Unable to believe that this was all he had left.

 _“_ Daro!”

Uzresh exchanged a glance with Ozru and looked to the elves. All the creatures shouted the order now. One on a tall horse by the body of the troll gestured to the ground..

 _“_ Drop your weapons,” the elf called in Common. Its clear voice cut through the noise. “Now!”

Around them the orcs milled in confusion and looked to their clan chiefs for instruction. A huge, well armoured orc — one of Bolg’s, for Uzresh did not recognise the armour — charged at the elf leader and fell with an arrow in his throat. 

_“_ Do we try?” whispered Ozru, as the brave orc kicked out his final breaths on the grass in front of the archers. 

Uzresh looked out over the crowd and tried to think clearly. They were protected here, partially, against the wall, but if they charged the elves others might join them, and perhaps together they could punch their way through. But then what? The were-worm tunnels on the western spur of the mountain were impossibly far. They would need to run along the city wall and across the valley. Others of their kin — those who had been fighting elsewhere — were already heading that way in droves. As Uzresh watched them run, a huge eagle swooped into a pack and cut a swathe through. Elves and dwarves swarmed everywhere between here and their escape route, and south wasn’t an option. They would be trapped between the river and the valley wall, and the elvish camp was south of the city. It was bound to be full of the creatures, and their cursed archers would cut his people down without even needing to cross the fast water.

Uzresh considered the younglings at his back. They could try to run, but he would lose some if not all of them. Perhaps this way was better, for at least they would go together. Side by side with their blood. Not picked off one by one to lie abandoned and broken. 

Inside the city gates, and too close for comfort, the bear roared.

Perhaps the elves would be merciful and let them go home. Uzresh snorted and threw his scimitar to the ground — unlikely — but an elvish arrow to the throat was quick and clean at least. After a beat of hesitation and a snarl Ozru followed, and there was a loud clatter behind Uzresh as his people quickly obeyed. All around them orcs came to the same decision, and the elf nodded and indicated by lowering both hands that they should sit down.

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long it had been. Certainly hours. Uzresh plucked at the grass by his knee and eyed the sky. The first tendrils of pink dawn light illuminated the jagged peak of the mountain, and the valley floor between Dale and the were-worm tunnels had quietened. The bats were long gone — chased off by the eagles — and the few trapped pockets of orcs and wargs that desperately fought on were slowly being overwhelmed. It was a slaughter.

Silently they watched the last of their kin fall. Beside him — their knees touching — Ozru breathed heavily with his eyes fixed on the valley.

 _“_ It was my decision,” Uzresh whispered. “Not yours. Mine.”

* * *

  
  
The cool breeze whispered along the city wall and around Uzresh orcs panted quietly. They’d shuffled back against the stone as the shadows retreated, dragging the wounded with them and leaving only the dead to lie in the full sunlight. Uzresh squinted as he looked at the sky. The stone of the high city wall sheltered them, but soon the midday winter sun would be fully overhead. It was horribly exposed. He longed for the cool of his cave. Never again would he complain about anything. Not about Ogluth setting the fire too close to the bedrolls, or the corner that was constantly damp for no discernible reason, and never about noisy younglings who trampled in dirt and leaves and were constantly underfoot. 

He wondered how long it would take before she realised he wasn’t coming home. That none of them were coming home. Without the hunters he had left them as good as defenceless. It was not supposed to be this way. Uzresh sighed heavily. He should have been looking for an escape from the moment they arrived in the valley. Instead of being caught up in the rush of battle. He had killed them all. 

He wished the elves would just get it over with — whatever they intended — because this was torture. 

Their weapons had been collected. A large pile of metal glinted in the sunlight beyond the loose ring of elves that pinned them to the wall, and Uzresh listened to their laughter as they talked amongst themselves in their own language. He licked his lips as he watched a small group of them pass a waterskin around.

Orzu growled beside him and jumped to his feet.

 _“_ What are you doing?” Uzresh grasped at him and leapt to his own feet as Ozru tried to shake him off. Around them others stirred, and out of the corner of his eye Uzresh noticed some of the elves unslinging their bows. “Sit down, Ozru,” he urged.

 _“_ Too hot.” Ozru ripped a gauntlet off and threw it to the grass. “I’m cooking in here. Help me with this chest plate.”

With an eye on the curious elves Uzresh worked on the buckles as Ozru tore off the rest of his armour and flung it away.

“Much better.” Ozru grinned as the chest plate came loose. He handed it to Uzresh and flopped back down against the wall. “It’s a lot cooler without it,” he said to the others.

Uzresh tossed the chest plate aside as his younglings bounced to their feet and began to tear at their armour. Along the line others started to do likewise. Their chiefs shouting at them for order. More elves fitted arrows to their bows.

 _“_ One at a time,” Uzresh ordered. 

Ozru and his veterans pulled the younger ones roughly down as Uzresh glanced worriedly at the elves. He beckoned to a youngling. “You first.”

Once the younglings were done he pulled off his own helm and dropped it to the grass. Ozru was right. It felt much better to be rid of it. One of his veterans stood, and Uzresh moved to help him as Bolg’s Gundabad orcs roared accusations at them. Calling them cowards and farmers, which were both likely true, but Uzresh no longer cared. He unbuckled his own dented chest plate. If the elves intended to kill them — and he was no longer sure what the creatures planned to do — then what did it matter whether they wore armour or not. The bodies scattered thickly across the valley all wore armour and it had not saved them, so his people may as well be a bit more comfortable whilst they waited.

* * *

Uzresh poked one of the tiny purple flowers with his claw. Similar ones grew outside their caves but he had never really looked at them properly before. He hadn’t needed to, because they were always there, and you always had plenty of time to look at things that were always there. Until you didn’t. Strange really, what you noticed when you had nothing pressing to do, and your life was no longer your own, and you didn’t want to think about what might come next. He followed the thin line of green that wound from the grass by his knee up and through the cracks in the stone — almost all the way to the top of the wall — and gently tugged the delicate stalk. How did it hold on? Maybe there were tiny claws that he couldn’t see. He peered closer. His nose brushing the stone.

 _“_ Uzresh.” Ozru elbowed him. 

The sunlight glinted off a group of heavily armoured dwarves as they spoke with the elves. Orcs around Uzresh growled and whispered worriedly as the wizard stalked through the city gate — the bear prowling at his side — and joined the dwarves. Their voices carried on the light breeze as they all spoke over each other. Some sort of argument. Urzesh strained to hear but they spoke too quickly for him to catch more than the occasional word. He watched the wizard, who appeared to be attempting to mediate. He was only an old man in dusty robes — strange that this was the creature that had struck such fear into them. The bear wandered off out of sight behind the wall and Uzresh watched it go warily. He didn’t like to think what the beast was up to. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He’d heard rumours of such monsters before, but thought them only stories. It was like seeing a bad dream brought to life.

Whilst he was distracted by the bear some decision seemed to have been reached. The dwarves moved to his kin at the furthest end of the wall — where it curved away toward the main gates of the city. Uzresh craned his neck with Orzu and the others.

Roars broke out, and orcs along the wall began to jump to their feet.

 _“_ What’s happening?” one of the younglings beside him asked. His voice breaking with fright.

Uzresh patted his arm. “Stay down.” He got slowly to his feet. The elves were alert again. Their captain shouting orders. Around him others got to his feet and blocked his view. Frustrated, Uzresh pushed his way forward with Ozru at his side, and it was Ozru who realised what was happening first. He pulled Uzresh urgently back to their people who, despite his order, were all on their feet and massed together. 

_“_ The leaders,” Ozru hissed. “They’re killing the chiefs.”

His people looked at him in silent horror, and Uzresh drew himself to his full height. So be it. He watched the dwarves as they made their way closer surrounded by elves who shouted and threatened, and paid their quiet section no mind. The rise and fall of axes were followed by howls of grief and outrage, but it wasn’t a slaughter. It was only the leaders. 

_“_ Ozru,” he said urgently. “Whatever happens, you must—”

Claws ripped into his arm. They tore like knives through fabric and skin, and Uzresh snarled as Ozru struck him again.

 _“_ Too obvious.” One of his veterans ripped a gouge in his neck as another held him tightly.

Uzresh fought as the blood poured down his chest but their grip was iron. “Stop,” he commanded. “What are—”

With a quick glance toward the elves Ozru tore the amulet — his identification from Azog — from about Uzresh’s neck, and tossed it at the body of one of their kin. 

“Our clan chief,” Ozru said to the younglings that surrounded them with their mouths agape. “Any one of you says different. I kill you.”

* * *

_“_ Can you use that arm, orc?” The dwarf looked at him with sharp eyes. “Show me.”

Uzresh slowly lifted his hand above his head. This dwarf was old. Its features masked by helm, and what skin remained visible covered by grey hair and beard. His heart beat loud in his chest. Perhaps it had been in the wars and might recognise him, although he did not recognise it. He snarled despite himself as the movement tore the stuck fabric away from the wound and fresh blood trickled along his arm. 

The dwarf tilted its head. _“_ Bring it down. And you can grip?”

He made a fist and the dwarf nodded. _“_ You’ll do. That way.”

Uzresh walked slowly toward the large group where Ozru and the others waited for him in silence. They stood close together for comfort as the line of injured orcs were spoken to by the waiting dwarves, and watched as they were directed to join their group or the other.

 _“_ Uzresh, what is happening?” asked one of his veterans in a low voice.

He shook his head. He didn’t know.

* * *

_“_ Don’t look back,” Uzresh ordered the younglings as he chivvied them ahead of him.

Behind them the cries of the injured carried on the still air. He glanced over his shoulder and urged his tired people into the comparative safety of the centre of the mass of orcs, as they trailed after the dwarves toward the mountain. Others jostled for position and Uzresh and Ozru snarled at them. No-one wanted to be at the back of the group as they joined the rough road that linked Dale to the mountain and weaved around the bodies. Elf and orc. Warg and horse. Scattered remains and dropped weapons, and the stones painted black with blood. The river to their right that flowed from the mountain stained a dusky pink.

Ahead of them some of the orcs splashed through the river’s edge, and Uzresh urged his people in that direction. Their heavy boots churned up the shallows. Uzresh ducked and scooped a handful of icy water into his mouth. It tasted fine. He’d drunk a lot worse. 

“Quickly,” he told the others. “The water. As much as you can. But keep moving.”

The water soothed parched throats, and quietened growling stomachs. With that immediate need sated Uzresh looked over the heads in front of him and let his gaze travel up the mass of rock. The dwarven fortress lay broken wide open. The ramparts above the huge gates bristled with heavily armed dwarves as they passed slowly through. Out of the cruel sun into the blessedly cool but foul-smelling darkness. Beside him Ozru sniffed and spat. Uzresh agreed with him. It smelt of a long closed cave. Death and decay — the stone saturated with it — and something else. Something evil.

* * *

The bees buzzed angrily overhead. Uzresh swiped at them and looked for Ozru, but his eyes were swollen shut from the stings and wouldn’t open properly. All over his body the poison burned like fire. Orc skin was thick and tough but the little beasts were dangerous when there were enough of them. He growled for Ozru to help him and tried to turn his head but it was stuck fast.

 _“_ I’m here, Uzresh,” Ozru spoke from somewhere nearby. “Stop thrashing about.”

The buzzing faded to a drone and then to low voices.

 _“_ I think he’s waking up,” Ozru said. “Can you hear me, Uzresh?”

He could, but he couldn’t see him. He tried to tell him to put the smoke on the hives and not on his face.

Ozru sounded somewhere between amused and worried. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

Tapping on his face drew him out of the shadows. He forced his heavy eyes open and looked up into Ozru’s eyes.

 _“_ There you are.”

He could still smell smoke. He tried to sit up and Ozru leaned on his shoulders and shook his head.

 _“_ Stay down. You’ve been out for two days. Well, maybe two days, we’re not sure. What do you remember?”

The gates. Uzresh thought hard as he stared up past Ozru’s face into the darkness. He remembered the gates, and the smell of dwarf that grew stronger as they were led far into the mountain. He remembered narrow bridges, and the vast darkness that yawned under his boots. One of the younglings had refused to cross and fought furiously as they pushed and dragged him with them. The struggles nearly pitching all three of them off the edge.

He remembered wide doors that led to an empty chamber hewn out of the rock. Darkness and the feel of the mountain as it pressed down on his head.

His arm itched and he reached to scratch it. 

Ozru slapped his hand away hard. _“_ Don’t touch it.”

Uzresh craned his neck to look at his arm. It was puffed and angry looking, and burned with a fury. The ragged gashes from Ozru’s claws purple and black.

 _“_ Infection,” said Ozru. “We put some herbs on it, and you’re less dead than if the dwarves had found your stripes. So there’s that. How are you feeling?”

 _“_ Thirsty.” His throat felt like there were knives in it.

His head span as Ozru slid an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit up. “Can’t help with that. They gave us a little water but it’s long gone.”

He listened as Ozru grumbled about the fight for the buckets. Not nearly enough for everyone to have a mouthful, and the Gundabad orcs had banded together and stolen almost all of it. There was bloodshed.

 _“_ Any of ours?” Uzresh barely recognised his own voice.

 _“_ No. We’re all still in one piece. For now.” Ozru lowered his voice. “I think we need to consider our options, because I know Bolg’s ones are. You might be safe, with your poisoned blood, but we need to keep the younglings close.”

In the darkness Ozru’s hands were bruised and bloodied. His claws broken from beating the doors for hours whilst Uzresh burned with fever. A futile waste of strength, he explained, for no-one came. 

Surely the dwarves hadn’t gone to this effort to simply lock them away and let them starve to death? They were a cruel race. Ozru and he, and his other veterans of the wars, knew that. But Uzresh expected torture, or some sort of bloodsport. Not slow death from thirst and starvation. He looked over the faces of the younglings and regretted that he had ever asked them to drop their weapons. This was no death for his warriors, and they were all his warriors.

 _“_ Watch that one,” Ozru hissed. 

Uzresh followed his eyes to a large orc sitting by the doors. One of Bolg’s. 

“Shudba. He knows, Uzresh.”

 _“_ Knows what?”

Ozru sniffed and stiffened. Every head turned to the door. They all smelt it. Dwarf. Uzresh’s stomach growled and his mouth watered. How long since they had eaten? As one the orcs rose to their feet. There was the sound of something heavy being dragged from behind the door, and then the grind of a key in a lock before the door swung slowly inward. Armed dwarves lined the passageway outside with torches that burnt their eyes. Ozru tucked a hand under his elbow as Uzresh swayed.

 _“_ Follow me,” said one of the old dwarves as he gestured with his axe. “Quickly, and no funny business or we’ll kill you all right here.”

Ozru took charge and arranged the veterans in a protective ring around the younglings. He tried to push Uzresh in there too until Uzresh realised what he was up to and snarled at him. 

_“_ Fine,” whispered Ozru as they shuffled in a mass toward the dwarf guards. “Don’t fall over.”

Uzresh nodded. He remembered the cries of the injured. These creatures would show no mercy, for they possessed none. His boots rang out against the stone as they followed the lights of the torches down a dark passageway. He looked at Ozru’s feet. 

“Where’s your boots?”

“On my feet.”

They weren’t. What was on his feet were flimsy looking leather covers, with not so much as a sliver of iron on them. Uzresh looked around the others and spotted a familiar looking pair of boots on an unfamiliar orc. 

“Why’s that—”

Ozru growled him into silence as they entered a large cave and bunched up with the orcs ahead of them. Uzresh stared upward. It was vast. He breathed deep, and jumped as a large hand wrapped around his upper arm.

 _“_ Clever.” Shudha squeezed Uzresh’s arm tightly. The jagged jolt of pain triggered a wave of nausea, and his empty stomach clenched.

 _“_ Let go of him,” Ozru hissed.

 _“_ Quiet, you.” Shudba’s claws dug into the wound.

The old dwarf was speaking. It gestured to dark holes dotted around the chamber and Uzresh tried to concentrate as fire burned up and down his arm.

Mines.

Other dwarves watched silently from the shadows. Dwarves with hard eyes and faces streaked with dust and grime. Each with a pick over its shoulder.

As the dwarf talked about metal buried in the mountain Shudba drew Uzresh closer. “I know what you are. Commander.” With a final hard twist, that left Uzresh bleeding and gasping for air, Shudba walked away. “Don’t forget.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot was written for the Fanfiction Feb 2021 prompt challenge. 
> 
> My random genre was Dystopia. Not entirely sure I've hit that with my prisoners of war being forced to work in the mines (but I felt that was quite dystopian?) so just in case I added in flowers and a few bees! 
> 
> Really enjoyed writing this. I'm toying with the idea of turning this into a multi chapter later this year once I have some other fics finished. 
> 
> Love to hear any feedback, including concrit.


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